Page 45 of For Fox Sake

I glance at my watch. Ten minutes. I need more time.

The connection has to be in New York. I flip to the Ithaca medical reports, and then my eyes snag on the date of a major surgery—a familiar date, over twelve years ago.

The day Aria died.

I reexamine the details, and then realization flows through me, letters and numbers blurring on the page.

Mia had a heart transplant.

I didn’t know. No one mentioned a transplant, only her heart condition.

The same day Aria died, Mia had a heart transplant.

We were close in age. Aria and I are only a year older than Mia. Aria was fifteen, Mia was fourteen.

Rushing white noise fills my ears.

Ryan wrote letters to my dad about Mia. Did Dad—did he? Was Aria’s heart donated? To Mia? He never said anything. Why didn’t he say anything? Why wouldn’t he tell me?

It’s my fault. We never talked about Aria. Every time he tried to bring her up, I changed the subject.

Why didn’t he tell Finley? Why didn’t he tell anyone? Wait. Maybe he did tell someone. Why wouldn’t they tell me?

My mind is tripping down rabbit holes, creating questions I cannot answer.

It’s too much to take in. I can’t think straight. I close the file and slip it back into the cabinet, my fingers shaking.

Breathe.

I suck down a few long deep breaths, taking time I don’t have to calm my body before I exit the room.

The walk back to Elaine’s office is a blur. Somehow, I get the keys back into her desk without being stopped or questioned along the way. Then I slip into a stall in the nearest men’s room and attempt to pull the pieces together.

What the hell do I do now?

I stare at the back of the stall door. Minutes pass. I keep breathing until my body settles and my mind clears enough to think somewhat straight.

Sliding my phone from my pocket, I pull up Dwayne’s number and shoot him a text, letting him know what I found out. Mia had a heart transplant the day Aria died. Maybe he can find more out for me, now that we have this little tidbit.

This is definitely the reason Dad was exchanging letters with the family and explains why Ryan always told stories about Mia in her correspondence, but I only had the one side of the story—I never had letters from Dad to Ryan.

Does she still have the letters?

I need to tell her everything.

She’s going to hate me.

Maybe I’ll pull her aside before dinner. During dinner? With her mouth full so she can’t yell. No, after dinner.

I can’t think straight.

I still have to get through the rest of this workday.

Eventually, I leave the bathroom and put one foot in front of the other and make it back to the break room to clock in when my lunch period ends. Then I go through the motions of the day, doing my best to pretend like my whole world hasn’t been rocked on its foundation.

Bits and pieces of Mia’s medical file float through my consciousness. She was at the top of the transplant list because she was going to die.

If Aria hadn’t died, Mia might have. If Mia had died, then little Ari wouldn’t be here.

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